[“Love is a chance combination of elements. Any one thing can keep it from igniting: a mood, a glance, a remark. But if we could define love, if we could predict it, it would probably lose some of its power.”]

The great poets are dead or gone, the final remnants of their genius left to whip about in the wind as shreds of paper dance in the path of a fast moving object. Rennaissance is replaced with revolution. The more romantic notions of this world have all but disappeared, unrecognizable to younger generations, presented in works of art as historic frames of mind. Irrepressible, pure emotions are haphazardly given the slightest considerations in a modern world of more competitvely-colored overtones.

Understanding and reason, and the basis for these things, reside in the mind’s ability to be aware of its self, to contemplate itself, its purpose, its reason for subsisting in such an indifferent universe. Emotion, the intrusive neighbor, dwells several floors down, haplessly barging in on the mind in order to complicate its existence and, at the same time, impose a certain amount of meaning. It yearns to simultaneously satisfy and confuse the mind’s sense of purpose.